Of Pianos and Anniversaries
by frankiebaby
Summary: Based on a prompt by Emerald Zen! Thanks for your response! Jo/Laurie: married and celebrating their 5th anniversary: Jo recalls when and how she finally fell in love with Laurie. Please review and more responses to come.


***Thanks to Emerald Zen for the prompt! Also, it's my *first* time writing Laurie and Jo fiction- I'm not a shipper at ALL, not even close (was totally behind LMA's decision), so this was quite an experience for me, LOL. I hope you enjoy! 3***

** Of Pianos and ****Anniversaries**

It was four-thirty, and Theodore Laurence, despite the fact that he had not yet left his house, had not seen his wife all day. She was in her study, he knew, writing another book, play, whatever it was. That would soon change, however.

Laurie's dark eyes glinted almost maliciously as they rested on the black walnut piano in the hall directly below his wife's room; an idea had entered his head, and it could not be resisted. The instrument gleamed like an eye giving a wink; his lips curved up once, and he sat down with a flourish.

Their German maid Gudrun, the only witness, stared when Laurie opened the instrument's hood with a bang.

"Sir, you mustn't," she whispered furtively, gesturing upstairs in helpless pantomime. She had seen the mistress of the house in a rage once before when her "scribbling" was disturbed by an unfortunate postman who missed the 'Don't Knock," sign on the door; it left an indelible impression on the young girl's mind.

"Hush," Laurie commanded, laughing under his breath. He cleared his throat with much fanfare, ran his fingers over the keys in a brisk arpeggio, and as the maid fled, accompanied himself as he lifted his voice in that tender and sonorous ballad of the French Revolution:

"_Boney was a warrior."_

"She will kill him here, in the house," Gudrun whispered between fits of giggles in an emergency conference with the cook. They were accustomed to their young, prank-loving master and mistress, and enjoyed their tricks nearly as much as they did. Mrs. Laurence seemed to be getting the worst of this one, they agreed. They opened the kitchen door to hear all the better as Laurie's voice lifted and soared, shaking the rafters of the English cottage with feeling.

"_Boney was a warrior,_

_Oh, aye, oh,_

_Boney was a warrior,_

_John Franzo."_

"Did you _ever _hear the like?" both Gudrun and Cook craned their necks. Faint stirrings were coming from Jo's study; the dragon was roused would be out soon, they were sure. Laurie was working his way up the scale quite aptly. He passed the high note with barely a tremor, and launched into the heart of his song.

"_Boney __marched to Moscow,_

_Oh, aye, oh,_

_Boney marched to Moscow,_

_John Franzo."_

Laurie's tenor faltered a bit in the places in the song he did not know well, but he redoubled his efforts on the chorus, banging the keys with gusto to cover false notes.

Someone was shouting. Then came the creaking of a door, and a slam.

Laurie ran out of verses he knew and segued without hesitation into another lyrical gem, punctuating each line with great flourish.

"_Of all the girls that are so smart_

_There's none like pretty Sally;_

_She is the darling of my heart,_

_And she lives in our alley."_

There was an ominous pause, the sound of feet in the hall, and then Jo's voice rang through the room, both angry and clear:

"Stop this instant, Theodore Laurence, or I'll come and make you!"

Laurie laughed, and loudly, too. He continued to sing, counting the steps in his head as Jo thundered down the stairs. One. Two. Three. Four. Yes, she'd be on the landing now, would be crossing the hall, and he had to time it just right-

- and he did. When Jo burst into the room, cap askew, hands and very red cheeks smeared with ink (she must have been either rubbing her face or chewing her pen, he thought) Laurie changed the song completely, and sang, grinning till his smile nearly met in the back—

"_Here comes the bride,_

_Here comes the bride."_

"Five years, sweetheart," he added at the end, then sprang across the floor and kissed his very discombobulated wife on the tip of her nose. She disengaged herself from his arms with some effort. "I forgot, didn't I?" she said; then she groaned. "I'm sorry, Laurie, I didn't intend—"

"I had to get you out of that room somehow," Laurie replied. He shot her a stern look, though he desperately wanted to smile. "It's nearly five-o'clock, it's our anniversary and I haven't seen you all day. You are exceedingly negligent in your wifely attentions, Mrs. Laurence."

Jo opened her mouth and shut it hard, colored up to her forehead. Guilt filled her face immediately. She looked so woebegone, tugging at the ends of the thick chestnut braids that had long escaped their tidy snood, that Laurie took pity on her and laughed, wrapping long arms around her.

"Don't," Jo commanded, clutching him. "Laurie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"My dear girl, the whole world knows how you are when you're writing a masterpiece," Laurie cut her off, lips tipping slightly. "Come on," he added, prodding her along. "We've dinner with your sister and Fred tonight, in honor of theirs and our fifth year of marriage, which you would have remembered had you kept your calendar—"

"Gudrun was to remind me!" Jo sputtered.

"She did. She said you gave her the look of the devil when she looked in on you earlier. Come along, Josephine. We must have you scrubbed and draped in your finery in under an hour-"

Jo groaned again, but allowed Laurie to propel her towards their bedroom. He didn't catch her faintly worried expression.

Xxx

xxx

xx

It was far from the first time that Laurie had to rush his absent-minded wife to some event or another; the couple had perfected a routine quite early in their marriage. They were ready in three quarters of an hour, with help from the scandalized Gudrun (she, with her old-world European sensibility, could not understand why Laurie had access to Jo's bedchamber at all, let alone while she dressed.)

Still, Amy Vaughn entertained in fine style, and as this was a dinner-party, Laurie wore fine black broadcloth, with a scarlet rose in his button-hole that matched Jo's dress of heavy China silk.

"Stop squirming, dearest," Laurie said patiently after a moment. They were currently ensconced in a light trap, moving at a fine pace through the heart of the village. He had purchased it a year after they chose England as their resting-place. Fashion demanded a proper barouche, but Jo preferred the light, springy ride, and suspected that Laurie's horse Solomon did as well.

During an European tour early in their marriage, Jo fell as in love with the Old World as she always expected to, and as Amy already lived there in a suitably gloomy country house with her husband Fred, it seemed ideal to take a temporary cottage relatively close by while Laurie looked for a house of his own that would suit them both.

A house still had not been purchased, however; Jo hated London's close, dirty streets as much as she hated the old manors, and much preferred their tiny cottage; it was quiet there, and she could write without the distractions a large estate would have afforded.

"Gudrun forgot a pin, I think," Jo mumbled, wriggling about a bit. She was still unaccustomed to playing the role of stylish lady, although she had acquired a style all her own over the years. She was as tall, as thin, and as brown as ever; but current Paris fashions suited her figure, and she had finally, with a newfound matronly confidence, learned to glide, not gallop. The result was very becoming; and the jaunty, debonair figure with its piles of dark glossy hair, severely tailored clothing and sharp grey eyes drew more admiring glances than she would ever admit to, or even notice.

Laurie looked at her now, and his black eyes were soft, not merry.

"You're lovely," he said with a quietness that became the steady, still-featured man he'd become, and took her hand, slipped his thumb beneath the softness of her glove to brush against her wrist. The skin was butter-soft and warm, faintly stained with the ink of hours earlier.

It was a simple caress, but Jo felt it settle in the pit of her stomach, sending tendrils of warmth through her. They'd been married five years, but it was unsettling, how deeply these small intimacies stirred her to this day. She studied him for an instant.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly, then lay her head on his shoulder.

"You think too much, Jo."

"Not about this."

"I'm a man, remember? We care little about such things," Laurie said carelessly; but she still felt awful. She was an author, yes, and a good one; fate had been good to her in this regard. She was serious about her craft, spun her little stories and sent them out diligently. In this, Laurie was her biggest champion. He'd never forgotten anything yet, not a deadline, not a birthday, not a celebration. And yet-

She gave herself a little shake, almost upsetting her coiffure. "I'm going to make it up to you."

Laurie chuckled and the tension broke a little. "No thank you. You quite frighten me when you look so determined."

"I mean it, Laurie." Jo sat up a bit straighter, black brows coming together resolutely. "I'm a good writer. I mean to be a good wife, as well."

"Well…all right. As long as it's not a meal."

Jo blinked as the insult sank in; then she laughed out loud and hit him with her reticule.

Xxx

xxx

xxx

Amy's _fete_ in honor of her sister and brother-in-law was thought of to be a great success; not that she would have accepted any less. It had been charging along at rather a fine pace. The china was thin, the linen was fine, the guests numbered four-and-ten, and a noted soprano had been secured as the evening's entertainment. Both dinner and concert were finished, and now an impromptu dance had begun in Amy's drawing-room. Laurie was spinning Jo round in a breathless Viennese waltz. He drew her close for a moment to speak.

"Amy looks well, does she?"

"She looks as she always does." Jo shot an approving glance to the head of the ballroom, where her tall, fair-haired sister stood nodding graciously to the company, clapping her soft white hands, looking like a queen applauding her subject's gaiety. Fred was close to her, deep in conversation with a Lord something-or-other; Jo had met him earlier and promptly forgot his name.

"She and Fred," Laurie said after a meditative moment, "remind me of a pair of Dutch dolls. It's the hair, I think."

Jo jabbed her husband in the side, though she was trying to stifle a laugh. "It's the white-and-blue ball gown; Amy _will _insist on matching Fred, no matter how like a painting they look."

"Her boys must be in bed," Laurie observed, squinting up at the awnings that loomed low over the room. "The eldest was tossing olives at guests over the last time we were here. They take after an aunt of theirs, I think."

Jo smiled at that, though her brow wrinkled slightly. It was something of a family joke, the fact that prim, cool-mannered Amy had promptly borne four boys after her marriage, exactly eighteen months apart, each bigger, blonder, and bonnier than the last. They all loved their Aunt Jo with unshaking loyalty, and Uncle Laurie seemed a godsend, with his bottomless pockets and willingness to wrestle.

Amy herself was a bit rounder, but the added weight only enhanced the Diana-like figure, and nothing could drive the elegance from her bearing. Fred paraded her around proudly, "draped in silks and jewels," and with the addition of their newest boy six months previous, it was a wonder he didn't actually burst his buttons tonight. He made many speeches in his wife's honor over dinner, his Yorkshire accent thickened with feeling.

Laurie saw the faint shadow that passed over his wife's face and placed a hand over hers. "We shall have our own, Jo."

"I know," Jo said cheerfully and gave herself a little shake. She would not think of that now.

He paused for a moment. "Let's step out for a bit, shall we?"

Jo readily agreed, taking his arm.

Under the heady influence of sherry, milk punch, six types of cheese and _duck confit de st vincet de tyrosse, _Amy's set barely noticed when the Laurences slipped into one of the curtained alcoves that lined the room, under the guise of pinning up Jo's petticoat. Laurie had trod on it during a particularly vigorous schottische, and Jo had long since learned to keep a paper of pins in her reticule for such emergencies.

"I do believe you're a bit tottery, Jo," Laurie said, trying not to laugh as he steered his wife to the nearest chair. The March temperance had died long ago under the scepter of European sensibilities that both Amy and Jo found pleasant in moderation; Jo, however, rarely drank. It made her head ache. Tonight, however, the party had toasted everyone from the departed Beth March to the Queen; Fred, who was quite proud of his new acquisition of sherry, was eager to try it on an audience.

"Sit with me, and fan me," Jo ordered in the desultory fashion she knew he liked, after Laurie had landed her safely on a chaise pushed against the wall. "We can peep at the crowd, like the old days," she added with a laugh. She reached up, pushing at the mass of hair that framed her temples with thin brown hands.

"Age it overtaking you, Josephine," Laurie teased, settling beside her and extending his long legs with a contented sigh. "You used to be able to outdance me at every turn, and now-!"

Jo snorted in rather an unladylike manner. "I didn't wear these confounded stays and bustles then, which accounts for most of it. Here, Laurie, I simply cannot stand it anymore. Do help-"

Laurie's face blanched as his wife began unhooking the front of her dinner-dress. "Jo, you can't-"

"I can. I feel a pin in my side, and it pinches so! It will only take a moment. Hurry, Laurie, draw the drapes-"

Laurie half-protested, half-laughed as he went to do her bidding. "At least let's take a walk," he said, gesturing at a door that presumably lead off the drawing-room—if he remembered correctly, it led outdoors. He tried the china knob and nodded triumphantly; it did indeed lead to Amy's famed rose-garden. "Come. The night air will clear your head."

"Dress first," Jo admonished, but she lifted her skirts and slid round him, inhaling the damp night air as deeply as she could.

The garden was silent save for music wafting off some distant balcony; it was all heavy scented air and tall rosebushes of exotic varieties and cool limewashed walls. Laurie took a deep restorative breath and turned to offer his arm to his wife; her slender fingers were making quick work of her bodice, and his brows shot upwards.

"Stop gaping," Jo ordered with more of a hint of a laugh in her voice, "and come help me. This confounded cage of a dress takes two people to get it off, and when next I lay eyes on Gudrun—"

" 'It suits ye figure, mem,' " Laurie said in a rather lifelike imitation of Jo's maid; but he came forward to help her, pushing the heavy silk to her waist. The night air wafted gently over her bared arms and shoulders; despite herself, Jo sighed with more than a touch of relief.

"Good grief, I've wanted to do that for hours. Amy needs more windows in that mausoleum."

"You haven't got a pin, have you," Laurie accused, but something in his expression had changed. Jo looked up, met his eyes just in time to see them darken significantly as they flickered over her; instinctively she crossed her arms.

"You wouldn't dare," Laurie said teasingly, then leaned in, spoke his next words against the warm perfumed skin of her neck, still damp and flushed from dancing and a warm drawing-room and a too-tight dress. "You started this, remember that," he added softly.

For a moment Jo couldn't move. "I fear I'm a bit…inebriated," she managed. Her heart had begun to race like a rabbit's and she knew her husband felt it; his lips had moved to cover the pulse at her throat. "Laurie…"

"A pin. I know, dearest," he said with a quiet laugh. His fingers slipped beneath the laces on her stays, tugging gently; as he did this, his mouth found hers. It was warm and welcoming, with a hint of scratchiness about the chin. Kissing him was different every single time, Jo thought rather hazily. She remembered the first time as if it was yesterday; the dark face bent over hers as she slept on the old horsehair sofa, dreaming of Beth, the tenderness on his face-

"_Jo? I'm home, dear, if I'm allowed_."

She'd known then, hadn't she? She'd known then exactly why she'd been so lethargic for so long after Beth's death, and exactly what she had been longing for. And after that, it had all seemed so _natural. _Perhaps time was all that was needed, she thought ruefully.

In their more passionate moments, the fun-loving, merry-faced friend she had married turned into a virtual stranger—one who was bold enough to touch her so intimately in a public place, or whisper things between his kisses that made her skin go hot. The pin, wherever it was, didn't matter anymore.

"Laurie—"

"I don't think you realize precisely how much I missed you today," he husked out. His voice was both tender and rough, tinged with a bit of the boyhood Italian accent he had resumed after years back in Europe. Her eyes fluttered shut despite herself.

"Laurie," she managed after a moment. The hands were on bare skin now—it was making her absolutely crazy.

"H'm?"

"We're still at Amy's."

Laurie was still for a moment; then he breathed against the curve between her neck and shoulder, drew back. The look he gave her as she did up her clothing made her pause; she leaned forward then and kissed him hard.

She did not say she loved him then; it was still difficult for her, still choked in her throat. It would be easier later, under the cover of warm darkness and intertwined limbs. But she clung to him for an instant and met his gaze steadily; and she knew that he _knew. _Laurie had always known, with her.

"Let's go home," she said softly. "Please, Laurie."


End file.
